“It is too insolent!”
“He says, ‘As my daughter by adoption, you shall bear my name.’ I am to be a Luttrell—Kate Luttrell of Arran!”
“And for this poor name you would barter all my love, all my affection, all my hope?”
“It is a great and noble name, Sir! There were Lords of Arran called Luttrell in the thirteenth century!”
“You have told me of them,” said he, peevishly.
“Too proud and too haughty to accept titles, Sir.”
“I have a name that the first in the land would not scorn,” said he, in a voice of blended pride and anger; “and my fortune is certainly the equal of a barren rock in the Atlantic.”
“You are not my uncle, Sir,” said she, softly.
“No, Kate; but——” He stopped, the colour fled from his cheek, and he seemed unable to continue. “Has any tender love for you equalled mine?”
“Stop there!” said she, fiercely; “my favour is not put up to auction, and to fall to the highest bidder. When you have said that my uncle is poor, you have said all that can be laid to his charge.” She closed her eyes, and, seeming to speak to herself, murmured: “The poorer, the more need has he of affection.”